


The Painting

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Dismemberment, Gen, Graphic Description, Horror, King Thorin, Possessive Thorin, Psychological Horror, Terrifying Tolkien Week, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins is stuck in an abandoned mansion awaiting for his cab. He comes across a painting of the fabled King Thorin, also known as the Mad King. When the painting starts to come to life, Bilbo runs through the maze halls in a desperate attempt to escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Painting

**Author's Note:**

> Heyy guys, this was written for Terrifying Tolkien Week. It's very AU with a horror theme. Please heed the archive warnings and tags before reading.  
> Non-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief and pocketed his phone. The taxi should arrive within 45 minutes. He glanced around the desolate hallway as was becoming habit. In the solemn silence, he could never shake the feeling of being watched. The gas lamp behind him only illuminated so far on either side. Beyond the boundaries of the warm orange glow lay suffocating, endless gloom. An irrepressible shiver ran up the man’s spine; he was just glad to be getting out of here.

Bilbo’s parents had died seven months ago. Among the many things they had left for him in their wills was a large colonial house he could not _wait_ to sell. His mother had always meant to sell the real estate when it had been passed down from his grandmother. But she always put it off, having more important things to do. She would come in periodically, searching through the possessions and covering furniture with cloth. Sometimes Bilbo would accompany her, but more oft than not, he would get out of it by whatever means necessary.

Frankly, the place gave him the _creeps_.

But here Bilbo was, on the third floor of the abandoned building. This was the only place where he could reliably get a signal on his phone. He wanted nothing more than to run down the stairs and out the front door, and wait outside in the chilly night. He refused to spend more time in here than absolutely necessary. Alas, it was not an option. The cabbie would inevitably call for reassurance that there actually _was_ a house at the end of the dark, spiralling road.

It had happened before, to say the least.

Bilbo was disrupted from his internal musings by an alert on his phone. Head cocking to the side, for he did not often receive messages of any sort, Bilbo checked the device.

“What the –?” The notification was not a message after all; apparently his half-full battery has dropped down to two percent. He shook the device, as if to remedy the problem. “First you refuse to get a signal anywhere but here,” he yelled accusingly, “And now you’re trying to die on me?” Despite his clearly terrifying intimidation, the battery refused to right itself.

He couldn’t well wait here for the call; his battery would most definitely die before the cabbie was even close. He might as well make his way back down, and hope the driver would follow up the path completely.

Bilbo was careful to turn off the gas lamp before leaving, the flame flickering a moment before going out completely. Darkness consumed Bilbo, and he fumbled to flick on his flashlight. A resounding sigh of relief came when a circle of light appeared. Bilbo began to make his way down the long, dreary path. There was not much to see on the way, the hallway empty save for lamps and paintings. But even the latter were concealed with creamy cloth. Only oppressive dark greeted him ahead, ominous and bleak in its obscurity.

Soon lost in grumbling complaints, Bilbo made a few turns without direction. He stopped as something caught his eye. On the wall hung a large painting, ivory cover slipping down one of the corners to reveal a golden frame and shadowy canvas. Bilbo reached forward and grasped the material, fully intending to right it. But his body seemed to have other ideas, and the painting was quickly divested of its canopy without his permission.

What he uncovered was a large portrait. Eyes scanned the canvas slowly, brows furrowing in discernment. The gaze was immediately drawn to a tall, imposing man standing in the foreground. A thick black fabric covered the top of his face, ties disappearing into long, silver-tinted black tendrils. His lips were pursed in a grave, begrudging line. A beard decorated his chin and cheeks, thick but short. Perhaps shorn for what was about to take place.

For there was another man in the background cloaked in shadow. Held in his hands was a large, sharp axe. Bilbo swallowed uncomfortably as he realized the solemn painting portrayed a beheading.

“Bit macabre, isn’t it?” he whispered hoarsely, tugging at his collar. Though the man’s eyes were covered, Bilbo could practically feel them boring into him. He had the itching urge to turn around and get away, fast, and yet he could not look away. Morbid curiousity won out, and Bilbo looked to the title of the painting.

“Execution of the Mad King, Thorin of Erebor.” _Ah, yes_. Bilbo remembered this story. It was fabled that long ago ruled a great kingdom named Erebor, wealthier than any other. It was a mountain of gold, and even the lowliest servant had money in abundance. But gold begot greed, and the ruler, King Thorin, slowly delved into madness. He coveted all the gold as his own, and killed any – even close friends and confidants – who tried to reason with him. Eventually, he was usurped and beheaded.

_Not exactly an inspiring story… nor one someone would wish to display._

Bilbo scrutinized the man’s – Thorin’s – face, entranced. His lips were pulled into a thin line, chin tilted high – with pride or defiance, Bilbo could not tell. Were the veil lifted, he wondered, what would he see? Would Thorin’s eyes burn yet with crazed passion? Or perhaps, with his impending death, came belated realization. He may be filled with sorrow and regret, yet a cool resignation to face his sentenced justice.

Bilbo twitched his nose in consternation as he was brought from his musings. Perhaps he would look into the story when he got home. Curiosity temporarily curbed, he continued on his way.

As he walked, a nagging sense of dread itched at the base of his skull. His stomach felt heavy, as if a large piece of coal rested inside it. This, however, Bilbo chalked up to the sinister painting he had just spent minutes pondering. Pushing his focus to finding the stairs, Bilbo lifted the light to the end of the walkway.

 _Well, that’s strange_. At the end of the hall – and was it much shorter than it should be? – was another uncovered painting. _No, not another painting_ , Bilbo realized. _It’s the same one!_ He glanced back over his shoulder, but could discern nothing; every hallway in this blasted house looked the same. Turning forward once more, Bilbo jumped back with a start. When had the painting come so close? It stood but a foot away.

Upon closer examination, Bilbo realized this was not, in fact, the same painting. It was of the same scene, but there were noticeable differences. King Thorin’s hair had been clipped, a pile of the wavy locks now piled at his feet. The cloth once covering the King’s face lay amongst the shorn hair. _Now why would they blindfold him, only to remove it right before the execution?_

Bilbo’s pondering was stopped short as he fully took in the King’s face. Lips pulled back into a vicious snarl to reveal white, blunt teeth, nose and cheeks scrunched up in the fierceness of his scowl. Thick black brows furrowed over a shadowy countenance. And those eyes – _oh, dear_. Bilbo’s contemplation from earlier had been answered: there was no lucidity, no understanding. They were black with madness, brimming with unconcealed rage. So focused on the man’s face, Bilbo didn’t see the painting depicted the King pulling his hands free from their bindings.

A sickening scream comes from somewhere in the house. Too close to be far away, yet it resonated all around like an echo, enshrouding him. Deep and guttural, the words shouted were indecipherable as Bilbo bolted into a run without fully realizing.

His instincts guided him while his mind struggled to keep up. There was a corner – and then he was running down another hall…

Then suddenly his arms pin wheeled as he tried to stop from slamming into another painting. The exertion from the run coupled with his painfully racing heart leave Bilbo doubled over, heaving for breath.

The hairs on the back of Bilbo’s neck prickled, alerting him to an unpleasantness yet to come. Bilbo struggled to keep his gaze locked on the hardwood floor below; _if he doesn’t look up_ , he tells himself, _it isn’t there, the painting doesn’t have to exist, everything is fine if he just looks to the floor_ –

But his gaze was drawn to the painting, like a moth to a flame: its pull deadly, yet unavoidable.

This time King Thorin wielded the executioner’s axe. The executioner was dead, gruesomely hacked to pieces, limbs in a pool of blood. The King was turned away partially, only revealing the silhouette of his sharp features as he glared at the spectators beneath the scaffold. The execution axe was raised above the King’s head, poised to rain terror upon the crowd. Blood dripped from the sharp tips, crimson trickling slowly, one droplet at a time, staining the already red wood below.

“Wh-what the _hell_?” Bilbo yelled before he could stop himself.

Then the King whirled on Bilbo, axe swinging and spraying blood everywhere. A sharp metallic taste hit the man’s tongue, causing him to splutter in disgust. The King lunged forward, and Bilbo instinctively jumped back.

“No, no, no, no… You’re – you’re a painting!” Bilbo yelled, jumbled with incredulous fear. The King’s pale, thick hand reached for Bilbo, fingers twisting and grappling. He reached further and further, Bilbo mirroring with shaky backwards steps. But no matter how hard he tried – and try he did – the hand remained two dimensional, unable to reach beyond the confines of the canvas. The King growled in frustration, heaving himself against the cage. The pounding was relentless, body thrown harder and harder against the invisible barrier, snarling and scratching and screaming.

Taking a few more paces back, Bilbo placed a hand over his heart, feeling the organ beat with painful rapidity. “It’s okay,” he gasped. “It’s okay, whatever – whatever this _thing_ is, it can’t get out,” he reassured himself. He watched a moment longer, shuddering as the King now smashed his axe relentlessly, fuelled by berserker rage. Assured the painting could not truly take corporeal form, Bilbo turned back and ran.

He almost made it round the bend when there was a bloodcurdling scream. Regrettably Bilbo looked over his shoulder, belatedly throwing the flashlight up when he was met with pitch black. Whatever barrier he thought was there remained no longer. Bilbo could see an all-too real arm struggling free from the enclosure, braced against the wall to bring the rest of the body out.

Bilbo broke into a run, adrenaline spurning him on faster than before despite his exhaustion. The light bounced up and down as his arm swung with the effort. _Where are the stairs!?_ he screamed to himself. There were pounding footsteps dogging him at every twist and turn, overwhelmed only by the terrible cries coming from the King.

“You would steal from me?”

Bilbo’s racing mind struggled to understand gruff, guttural shouting, but when he did, the apprehension chilled him to his very core.

As Bilbo’s feet pounded against the floor, the sound from behind seemed to grow fainter, if only slightly. He grasped the corner of the wall to propel himself round another bend, the memento pushing him even faster. _When had the house become such a maze?_ Bilbo wondered distractedly. But it mattered not – the stairs! Bilbo let out a huff of relief, vigour renewed at the sight of possible salvation.

Then there was a blinding pain in Bilbo’s head; he was enveloped by shadow. Vaguely worrying the flashlight may have died at first, but slowly the blackness shrouding his sight dissipated. With a pained grunt, Bilbo rolled onto his side… and realized he was on the ground. Dazed and groggy, Bilbo slowly pushed himself up with his shaky arms.

“Nngh,” he moaned, pressing a hand against the throbbing side of his skull. An alarmed yelp escaped his tight throat when his hand came away covered in blood. The warm crimson was slick between his fingers and trailed down his forearm. _Surely this is far too much blood for a simple fall?_

That was when he felt it: it was not only his hand covered in blood. No, his backside and legs were coated as well. With a bracing gulp, Bilbo looked down. The worn dark brown of the hardwood floor had been replaced with a sticky scarlet substance.

With a scream, he jumped up much quicker than he should have, having to support his slippery hands on shaky knees as his vision faded to black, the threat of syncope looming. Once the episode passed, Bilbo righted himself, only to come face to face with a sickening sight. It was another portrait. Now, there were masses of bodies piled upon each other, disturbingly disfigured and dismembered. The blood of the innocents poured from the painting, leaking out of the frame, drenching the wall to pool on the floor. Bile crawled up Bilbo’s throat at the gruesome vision, slimy and slick, the acrid taste burning in his mouth.

The sinister silence was shattered by frantic, seeking footfalls. Trance broken, Bilbo darted around for somewhere to hide. He threw himself at the nearest door, clammy hands fumbling with the cool brass doorknob longer than he could afford. Once the door was shut, he braced himself against the wall. His veins coursed with fear, rattling his limbs and winding his breath.

His panicked gasps were impossible to hear over. _Focus, focus, focus,_ he chanted. _In and out, nice and slow, in and out – just like that_. In through his nose and out through his mouth, Bilbo was slowly able to calm his breathing. The reeking dampness of the dusty room invaded his nostrils, cloying his throat with its musk.

Ear pressed against the wall, Bilbo listened.

There was only dead air.

But the house was ominous in its muteness. Bilbo’s fingers tingled, intuition keeping him alert. He knew he couldn’t stay in here forever, but venturing outside once more – a tremor involuntarily twisted down his spine just at the thought.

Bilbo placed a hand over the end of the flashlight before turning it on, subdued streaks rays escaping between his fingers. The illumination was just enough to make out shapes of furniture. Beside a modest twin bed was a chest of drawers, on top of which sat a vase.

Chewing his lip in consideration, Bilbo’s gaze darted back to the small wooden frame hiding him from the hallway. If he had even a chance of making it out, he needed a weapon of _some_ sort; a vase was better than nothing. But just as he took the first step, a loud creak snaked along the floors. He halted immediately, a warm gush of fluid alerting him to his now-bloodied lip. The creak came again, louder this time. Closer. Impulsively, Bilbo reached out to the doorknob to check the lock; it slid into place, and Bilbo berated himself for forgetting earlier.

Thumping footsteps stopped right outside the door. Bilbo’s chest began to burn; no matter how he tried, he was unable to catch his breath, his throat tightened with terror. The knob rattled back and forth eerily as a hand tried to open it. Lightly at first, it soon digressed into a merciless, thrashing jolt.

A loud thump reverberated as the flashlight fell from Bilbo’s sweaty fingers. He eyed the vase, but his body wouldn’t respond to his command. Instead it shrank further into the wall, as if Bilbo could simply become one with it.

King Thorin let out an agonizing yell before throwing himself at the door. Bilbo yelped, hands flying to protect his face instinctively. The pounding soon became frenzied, old wood groaning in protest. The King was ruthless in his ambition and it was not long before the door was splintering.

Finally Bilbo’s body responded, and he dove to hide under the bed. His head banged against the metal frame, but he ignored the stinging pain, slick hands struggling to gain purchase against smooth flooring. Torso now under the bed, his legs scrabbled feebly. A thick paw wrapped around his ankle, pulling him backwards with a harsh yank.

“No!” Bilbo screamed, nails digging into the wood. He cried out in anguish as the force of another wrench ripped his nails apart. Body sliding across the floor, his fingers grappled wildly without purchase. Bilbo was jerked onto his back with a painful slam that left him momentarily stunned. Regaining his senses, he found himself staring into the face of the Mad King. For truly, there could be no other name: his eyes feverish from rabid rage, nostrils flared, sneer animalistic. Bilbo opened his mouth to scream, but a thick hand covering his throat trapped the noise.

“Where is it?” The Mad King’s voice was deep, harsh, and seemed to reverberate with its force. When Bilbo did not answer but for a few gasping squeaks, he was shaken back and forth roughly. “Where is it?” he demanded fervently.

Perhaps realizing the futility of interrogating a strangled man, the hand on Bilbo’s throat eased slightly. It was enough for him to get a full lungful of air, and he managed to cough out a hoarse and confused, “What?”

“Do not play your foul games with me!” The Mad King’s other hand came up to grasp at Bilbo’s hair painfully. Bilbo’s slight frame was seemingly nothing to the King’s brute strength as he was lifted from the floor. Bilbo’s hands came up to grasp at the Mad King’s throttling hand frantically, alternatively clawing to get free and holding on in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his throat. Legs kicked out frantically as he was forced out of the room. Slammed against the railing outside, another cry of pain gurgled from his tight throat.

“I know you have it! You have stolen it from me, my Arkenstone! Give it back, you rat!”

His vision started to swim, head cloudy and extremities tingling. The throttling relented, and Bilbo collapsed to his knees, eyes burning.

“Answer me, rat!” The Mad King did not wait before kicking Bilbo’s soft side with a steel-toed boot. Breath he had only just begun to recover was knocked out of Bilbo once more. The force of the blow left him lying on the floor where he curled into a ball.

“Please!” he cried out finally. “Please, I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Do you take me for a fool?” the Mad King growled. As the large hands took a hold of his neck once more, Bilbo keened and struggled against the hold, but it was futile. “I see your treachery!” the Mad King zealously proclaimed. With this, he pulled the smaller man higher and higher. Bilbo kicked out, but the strikes were met with steel hardness. Undeterred in the slightest, the Mad King forced Bilbo’s body over the railing. For a moment, Bilbo’s heart seemed to stop. The fear was all-consuming, squeezing his chest and stealing his breath. In spite of himself, Bilbo glanced down; the lower levels were concealed in the darkness, but he knew the drop to be far.

The hand against his throat was released, and Bilbo fell with a terrible scream. A fist grasped his curls, the only thing saving him from the plummet. Bilbo clung desperately to the attached arm, bloodied nails digging vainly for traction in thick skin.

“I will give you one last chance, you miserable thief!” The Mad King’s words were punctuated with shaking Bilbo by his clump of hair, eliciting painful cries. “Where is my Arkenstone?”

Bilbo opened his clamped eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the blinding tears. “Please,” he implored again, pouring all his distress into the plea. “Please, listen to me. I am no thief!” He looked up into the King’s eyes, begging earnestly. “I-I do not have what you seek! But… But I will help you look for it!” It was a pathetic attempt, blurted out without consideration or contemplation. But hanging from the hair on his head, Bilbo would do anything to be freed. So he hoped against hope, searching the King’s dark expression for the vaguest glimmer of humanity, a flicker of understanding.

“Curse you,” he snarled darkly.

The King threw the sentenced burglar with such force, Bilbo was left screaming for a mere moment before his body collided with a sickening crunch against the hard floors three levels below.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on tumblr under the same name, always ready to chat all things Bagginshield and The Hobbit ;)


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